Page 8

8

Merry

She doesn’t look back. It’s more exciting that way, the sensation of him watching her straddle the motorcycle, the seat pulsing against her apex, her legs splaying wide, the hem of her dress flouncing high enough to reveal bare thighs. He keeps a prudent distance, moving in her wake like a panther amid the trees.

His pursuit sends darts of pleasure rushing up Merry’s spine. “Just in case it skipped your mind,” she hollers behind her, “I know what a home means to someone who’s lost it. Points for me, I’m already relating to you on an intimate basis.”

Because she maintains a slow speed, he catches up to her quickly, keeping pace with the bike. “You assume I give much thought to the concept of a home.”

“I think you do, except it’s not obvious because home means something different in your mind. I’ll take a gander. You think it’s the only place you’ll find self-worth and purpose and kindreds. You think it can’t be replicated, which is true since no landscape is the same. But you also don’t want to believe value, purpose, and kindreds can be redefined. That they can evolve and change. You’re unwilling to give yourself the chance, because that would mean moving on from your previous life and… You’re tightening your bow strap. Is that a coping mechanism too?”

Anger releases the weapon’s harness. “Your speculative nature rivals the Goddess of Wonder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Merry tosses him a sideways glance. “How old are you?”

“Two thousand eight hundred. You?”

“Two thousand eight hundred and fifty. Alas, we just missed each other.”

“Real name?”

“Merry.”

“That is not what I meant,” her companion grumbles.

“But it’s what you should have meant,” she argues.

Anger snatches Merry’s elbow, halting her on the vehicle. At the gesture, he jerks his fingers away, but it’s too late. Kilowatts radiate up Merry’s arm.

The god flexes his digits and then makes a fist, knuckles clenching as if his touch is malignant. His gloves strain with the movements, signifying his urge to grab her again, the pressure somehow ghosting over her skin.

He’d been about to ask another question, but now he just shakes his head, more to himself than her. Hmm. Is that good or bad? The only thing Merry can tell for certain is that Anger’s tongue-tied, and that she’d like to help him untangle that tongue with her own.

She switches off the ignition and dismounts. “Keeping my original name would be like wearing a stamp of defeat, all for an emotion I never aspired to wield. I’d be clinging to a fate I didn’t want in the first place, when I’d prefer to reinvent myself on my own standards.”

He wavers. “So you deny where you came from.”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not denying anything. They denied me. It’s their loss.”

A bemused moment passes before some form of realization unspools across Anger’s face. “In which case, it’s also their shortcoming.”

Merry feels a prideful shade of crimson flood her cheeks. “If you wish to know about me, then you must open up too. This is an even exchange.”

“There’s little to tell about myself.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be concealing so much.”

“Enough with the fucking riddles,” he bites out. “I’m just Anger.”

“Of course you are. And I’m just Merry.”

His pupils blaze like candlewicks. “You are not just anything.”

That voice could scorch a planet—or the sun itself. It certainly finds a spot to occupy beneath her skirt, an ache building in her cunt.

More than that, her heart constricts at the admiration in his words. For once, she doesn’t know how to respond. If she tries, her eyes will sting. Instead, Merry assesses their surroundings with a conspiratorial grin. “We need ambience.”

She glances at The Stars, communicating her wish for a charitable dose of magic. In response, The Moonlit Carnival wakes up. Various locations flare with shades of blue. Loudspeakers emit the tune of a keyboard.

To humans, the environment is quiet and still. To deities, this place comes alive.

Merry thanks The Stars, then commands, “Get rid of the weapons.”

Anger pulls up short. A growl scrapes from his throat. “Did you just give me an order?”

“No, I just gave you the first of many orders.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“You have me confused with a psychopath named Malice. I’m not indignant yet, but I will be if you don’t disarm yourself this instant.”

“Like fuck, will I—”

“How short is that fuse? Are you about to throw a tantrum?”

“No, but—”

“Outstanding.” Merry swipes Anger’s weapons, ignores his indignant bark, and sets the items on a bench, then parks her motorcycle. “Which thrill shall we seek first?”

“Merry—”

“Oh, look!” she announces, feigning surprise. “The Constellation Carousel. What a coincidence, it appears we’ve come full circle and meandered back to where we started. Either that, or we haven’t gone far. I’ve been too distracted by your glower to notice. I get Libra!” She races toward the whirligig, jumps onto the platform, and climbs above her ride. The set of Libra scales includes a seat atop the bar holding each weight pan, the arrangement cleverly designed for patrons.

It takes a few speechless seconds for Anger to get moving. After checking the vicinity, he steps onto the dais, twisting his body sideways to squeeze past disciplined Capricorn and sensitive Pisces, the t-shirt shifting over his photogenic torso. In spite of himself, he inspects the options, outwardly sulking that she’s called shotgun on the most appealing option.

Conceivably, his vanity prefers the Taurus as an alternative. Big horns, big bulk, big balls. However, that hulking beast is located elsewhere on the carousel, away from her, which won’t do.

Merry relaxes on her perch. “Need help?”

“I can choose my own mount,” the god snaps.

Yet he doesn’t. He stands there, assessing the painted figures, the overhead bulbs accentuating his angular features.

Merry bites back laughter at the sight of this hulking deity overwhelmed by the selection. Anger’s taking this task seriously for somebody who doesn’t want to join her. It’s a scrapbook moment, meant for commemoration and keepsakes.

She wishes she had a camera.

She wishes cameras could capture deities in the first place.

Merry points to the Capricorn goat, which earns her an offended grimace. “What’s the matter?” she teases. “Afraid you’ll fall off?”

“In case you aren’t aware, humor is overrated,” Anger gripes.

“Haven’t you ever played before? Purely for fun?”

“No.”

“Not even in The Dark Fates?”

“No.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“No.”

“Grump.” As an invitation, she smacks the goat’s backside. “Come on. This zodiac sign is all about work ethics, ambition, and reliability. It’s the foundation of a crew leader.”

“I don’t believe in mortal astrology,” he huffs, then takes a second look. “Ambition, you say?”

“Reserve, loyalty, practicality. Am I getting warmer? P.S. If you lose your balance, I’ll catch you. And wouldn’t you like to sit next to me? Don’t you covet this seat even a teeny bit?”

“Is there a single fucking question or thought you’d actually keep to yourself?”

“I’d rather we tell each other everything.” She cups the side of her mouth and whispers, “What happens in the carnival, stays in the carnival.”

Anger stares at her, then a boom of laughter rips out of him. The noise is destructive, the ground quaking beneath them. It’s a timeworn, vigorous racket, unpracticed as if he’s never been jovial a day in his life.

The extraordinary sound of Anger’s mirth cuts off Merry’s air supply. She deserves a medal for instigating this response, which rinses away his reservations. With humor still tweaking his face, his shoulders lose their stiffness, and he swings one leg over the goat.

Once they’re seated, the carousel responds to The Stars’ command. The handles crank, twirling them into motion, their mounts bobbing while vivid colors pour across the scenery.

The breeze flutters Merry’s skirt, pushing it higher. Anger notices, his attention straying to her thighs and then clicking away, his jaw tensing. This provokes Merry to inch her knees wider, if only to see a muscle jump in his profile, his eyes flickering once more when he thinks she’s unaware.

His fingers clench the bar so hard, it’s in danger of cracking. Merry’s elated by the prospect. What would this rage god do if she swung her legs over his lap and straddled him?

Her soft walls abrading his lap. The mount swaying up and down. The overhead lever pumping. This world flashing by until she and the god are dizzy, chasing an end that will never come.

Meanwhile, Anger shifts on the seat as if burdened by his own physical dilemmas. He straightens on the makeshift saddle, one hand choking the poor bar, the other flattening across his hip, the pose reminiscent of an emperor.

Merry chortles. “You look regal.”

Anger doesn’t glance at her, but his mouth quirks. “Too much?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

“So what happened to your brazen interrogation? Isn’t that the basis for this excursion?”

She doesn’t buy his act. “You don’t think it’s brazen. You think it’s unnerving.”

“What I think is that you’ve forgotten your plan.”

“And I think that makes two of us.”

Anger sobers, his mood folding as he contemplates the world spinning outside the carousel, beyond the music and lights. “I would like to hear about your life. Anything you volunteer. Please.”

Merry hesitates, then relents. “I adore music, neon art, and romance. I’m a pro at moving fast, so beware if we ever engage in a real race. And I love my motorcycle more than life itself.”

Intrigue pulls his gaze back to her. “Neon art. Why that?”

“I fancy unique sources of light. I admire things that glow in the dark and tell the truth.” Merry waves a hand. “This isn’t to say I don’t love The Stars, but I can’t rely purely on them. Neon is soulful yet incandescent. It’s lively and unexpected.”

A contemplative look crosses his face. “I like the sound of your light.”

So does she. “What kind of light do you admire?”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

“Will you be here long enough to do so?”

“I might be. Stars willing.”

“I wasn’t asking The Stars. I was asking you.”

“Then, yes.” His octave drops. “I’m afraid of snowstorms. Or rather, any storm.”

At once, he goes rigid from the confession. The wind rustles his hair, and the ride’s lambent bulbs reflect off his frame, which looks to be made of rocks.

Merry promises, “But you don’t have to be afraid here.”

He studies her, baffled, stricken. Has no one ever made such an offer to him? Hasn’t anyone ever been concerned about his fears?

This god acts like she’s handed him an object he doesn’t know how to operate. But he does start talking. While the carousel wheels, and the music drifts from one song to the next, the years spill out of them. And those years turn into centuries, filled with random moments, recurring dreams, and lucid nightmares.

They rest their heads against the oscillating bars and debate what makes The Stars enigmatic, what makes them scientific, what they mean to mortals, and what they signify to deities.

Anger discloses why he chose iron for his arrows and wings. “It’s responsive to human temperature. It reacts to heat, which is a mortal embodiment of fury.”

“That makes it pliable, able to change,” Merry says. “So maybe you’re not as inflexible as you think.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Iron doesn’t break.”

“But it bends.” Merry dismisses another of his grunts and explains why she drives a bike. “When I’m riding, I become my own shooting star.”

She stands upright on the Libra scales and flips her head back to observe their reflections in the ceiling. And the carousel keeps spinning, spinning, spinning. Merry laughs aloud, then catches Anger watching her with an expression that could cause a citywide blackout. It’s electric, dominant, aggressive. And it’s directed at her, as though she’s the only bright thing he can’t turn off, the only source of illumination he can’t resist.

Merry’s grin falters. Smiling requires oxygen, but he’s stolen it from her.